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March 29th, 2024

A mother's smile in the rearview mirror lights a life

Sharon Randall

By Sharon Randall (MCT)

Published Oct. 19, 2015

Do you have a friend you've known and loved for more years than either of you care to count?

I hope so. Say her name, picture her face, recall the sound of her laughter, the color of her eyes, the way she makes you feel. When was the last time you spent an hour together? How would you describe the kind of person she is? What sort of difference has she made in your life and those of others? How do you want to remember her?

If you could tell just one story about your friendship, from all the countless memories you've shared over the years, which one would you choose?

The invitation, like the guest of honor (and her lovely daughter who sent it), was beautiful and elegantly understated:

"Join us to celebrate Ginny's 70th birthday." Then came the date, place, time and a note: "No gifts, but bring a story about your friendship to share."

My mind raced with questions. The party was in California. There was no way I wanted to miss it. I live in Nevada, but that weekend, I was supposed to be in Arizona. Could I change my plans? Rearrange the flights? Where would I stay? What would I wear? And how in the world did my friend Ginny get to be 70 years old?

Here's a little tip: Do what you want while you're young. Pretty soon you'll be trying to figure out how to get to your friend's 70th birthday party.

All of those questions (except the one about Ginny's age) were easy. The hard one was which story to tell at her party.

For example. I could tell how we met at my wedding on the steps of the church. We were both running late. I spotted her and her husband and knew they were the college buddies I'd heard so much about from the man I was marrying. They were anxious to get a seat. I told them not to worry, the service wasn't likely to start without me. It was the first of a great lifetime of laughs that we would share.

I could tell how I told my husband, if he and I ever split, I wanted custody of Ginny and her husband. I could describe how we raised our children together, their two, our three, going camping in the rain, sharing cabins in the snow, saving our parental sanities just by knowing we weren't alone.

I could confess how I once left my house in a Godawful mess to drive up to see them. On the way up, our car broke down. They came to our rescue, drove us back to our place and spent a weekend in the Godawful mess.

I could recall how when my husband was dying with cancer, they came to say goodbye. We spent a few hours talking and laughing, remembering good times we'd shared. When they left, he grinned and told me I could have custody of them until the day he'd see them again.

I could tell lots of stories about my friend and our friendship. But this one, I think, says it all.

Years ago, I interviewed Linus Pauling. He was 93 years old, had won two Nobel Prizes, was still doing research and seemed glad to tell me a great many things, including this. His wife, Ada, had died the previous year. He missed her, it seemed, something fierce.

"Tell me about her," I said.

He lit up. "We met in college," he said. "Her IQ was higher than mine. She could've done all the research I have done. Instead, she chose to make a home and a life for me and our children. She made everything possible."

Two things struck me about that statement. One, Ada Pauling lived a life of her own choosing. Two, beyond other achievements, she chose, for her husband and children, to make "everything possible."

I'd say the same of my friend Ginny. The life she has chosen, the home she has made, all the things she makes possible?

I wish you could see her.

That's my story about my friend. What's yours?

Sharon Randall
(TNS)

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Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."

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